No Turns

The Knight unfound is lost amid faces sunk into our ground.

Show me, hear me, I beg, I plea. May I stay, dare I flee?

Will I show you, will you see? You’re here, after all. Come to see my fall?

Guide my heart, little star. Show me now, is it far?

Where do roads go past this scar?

Roar of days ancient fire twist ‘round my finger, twisting mire.

Will I show you, will you see? The knight unfound, with sleeping bee.

No matter the path I take from here, all is peaceful fear.

“No turns, next 50 miles”, no burns, no smiles.

Knifes edge highway, follow your glowing skyway.

No lines to cross, just uncomplicated direction. No bumps or humps, a subtle detection.

Loops with no condition, quiet night’s introspection. Pain’s stealthy blight, black hearts affection.

Forward or onward, a decisions resurrection. Temptation, a courageous heart’s great imperfection.

Take these wanderings, mind disinfection. Born to fly, gravity’s harsh interjection.

If only to hold, this glowing recollection. Fear the fear, this long disconnection.

Above and below, both paths reflection. Do I see, or is this just my predilection?

I am unclear, even my own objection. Guide me along, proper deflection.

Green Dreams

Waking driftings, nothing holding me down. Just a blur, just a passing frown. Green dreams of my children’s eyes. An imagine that makes me want to drop to my knees. Some thoughts are so big you cant think them. Some dreams are so crisp overcast glow, then burn your eyes. Then shine like ravens in battlefield skies. Dead ends are so mystifying to us, aren’t they? We always love to see that cliff or wall. But sometimes all I want to see is what lies behind it. What is it in me that drives such flagellation of other lives when all I have is now. Maybe it is in such that I allow myself to see what I hid from myself in my heart.

Pan en, then… Is that enough? Do we need more? Pan en pain, pan en tears, pan en silver light’s caresses. Theos en pan.

How can I turn wrong in such purity? Then why still fear my maturity? I guess that’s the lesson in these green dreams. Fear is not in my heart. The skies are overcast but wrap around us like angels wings. How can any of this be real when it feels so easy, so right. Just like in dreams when nothing seems to connect, and no one seems to notice, least of all the dreamer. What is the lesson if not that its very disconnected flow is a sacred Chao. What level do we perceive from? The Chao is a unique snowflake in Chaos blizzards dance. And oh how it dances and flows to its own beautiful music. Some can see past Chao and its twins, with grids of majesty and tearful power. Sometimes I can see the fragments spinning in my life and just accept them as they are. They still glint from the light source, for all fragments shine. Lost nows. It is these that we hold on to so tightly that we cut ourselves. Nows that can never be lost but in our hearts. When we despair of the break from now, and the pattern it follows. Will its edges be jagged or smooth? Will they be sharp or course? Gentle or hard?

But what, then, is this but window dressing? Would we scoff at The Three Graces if placed in the window of a Burger King? Would Monet’s fire be any less if placed in a rough hewn frame? Why do we dance so in the frames of our lives… All still shines from the soft sweet light at its center…

All I wonder about now… am I falling into it, or away from it? Do fragments spin away? Or past?

Time will tell… Time will tell.

Clouds

Sometimes I can see it. Uncounted lights, floating in black space. Each light is different, some dance and caper, joyous and uncontained. Others are slow and quiet, winking to deep rhythms of the ancients. The colors are all gold, and all perfectly the same. But you can tell ones glow apart from another, like different memories of the same place. I claim to see it.

That's my first lie.

I can only imagine one or two, maybe ten or even a hundred. But they stretch on forever. Absolutely endless, and forever. Moving in 4 dimensions, there is no end to the Clouds. They reach out to each other with filaments of the finest silk thread. Even the thickest strands look like they would blow away on the breeze, but they stand so strong. So strong some can never be broken, strong as the lights themselves. Strong enough to circumvent time. Each plus is rebounded. Each flash is answered, but never the same way. Energy moves around the Clouds, building and releasing. Each Starsoul touches these pulses and changes it, makes it it's own.

That's my second lie.

Its all one thing, Light, putting on a show. Each can change the plus of life, but they are all the same thing. Memories of memories. Their cores are one. Trace each nexus back to its beginning. It is shared by all. But the Dance of Souls is oh so beautiful to watch. Slowly at first, I can see some of it. Faster and faster I comprehend the shifts, the flickers and the pulses. Soon its like a buzzing sound, but in pictures. Sometimes I even see this little me. I watch myself reach out and touch other Lights. I feel myself in the cloud.

That's my third lie.

I can feel the cloud. All of it, every last photon. But not myself in it. There is nothing to feel. I can only see myself from elsewhere in the Cloud. Then its not me feeling anymore. Seeing is one thing, watching the connections, sighing and singing. Its another thing to feel the pixel that is me. I've yet to find myself in the Cloud, but I'm not actually looking. I'm just this little bulb, abandoned and trapped among countless others.

That's my forth lie.

I am not the pixel on the giant TV screen. I am the electricity that runs through it. I am that which makes it glow every so brightly. Just as every charged electron has its moment of radiance, we get to express our move in the Dance of Souls. Just as every charged electron has to return to the power station, we all get to go home. But the power remains on. And the show must go on.

Low grey Clouds on a rainy Sunday afternoon, watched from warm in bed out a frosted window. That is maybe all there is, Clouds.

The Grand Mirror

I could have been upset that I was back in Santa Barbara today, but I wasn't.  I just couldn't muster the indignation properly to get well and worked up.  The truth is I cheated; I didn't try that hard.  There is a patch along the 101 that runs right next to the beach, far out in the mists sit two islands.  I don't know their names.  What I do know, they are miles on a side, just far enough away to be hazy in the mist dancing along the top of the ocean.  Large mountains run along the spine of these fog shrouded giants, dwarfing even the cliffs that tower over my head.

In-between here and there reside six or seven mammoth oil rigs.  They remind me of bugs, twisted, hard things, walking on spindly legs.  They rest under the suns harsh glare, folded up and dark.  They seem so close in the daylight.  So peaceful, restful.  At night they glow with a yellow light, a perfect pride of walkers.  I could just imagine them skittering a few hundred yards every now and then, when no one was watching all that hard.  When everyone on the road has something better on their minds, when they look without seeing... The giant bugs scoot down to a new place, ready to drop their long mouths to uncharted depths.  Always in search of something, hungry and relentless.  But they are kind in my mind, intense and intent.  Single-minded.

But for now they are sleeping, and the sun is shinning.  The sky was so blue, so bright.  The whole sky its self was pulsing with light.  Reflecting it all was the grand mirror, so claim I could see the sky in it.  The sky and the water one and the same, the lost horizon.  It was just bright blue along the edges of my sight.  It reminded me of a picture I only ever read about, which makes its impact somehow the larger.  I wonder what it may look like, making it so easily remembered.  Would the image its self be unnoticed or forgotten?

It was a picture of the sky and the ocean, made like a map.  It displayed the world as a column of fluid, at varying pressures.  It showed how you could start on the bottom of the ocean and just keep swimming to the sky.  There is no real difference, its mostly the same stuff, just not so close together up in the sky.  There is a place at the edge of our atmosphere that is almost space, but still has some air in it.  Its a boarder that I never thought about, and I don't think many people do.  The edge of space as a place.  A real place that you could go and feel the edge, and say, "This is it, the end of life.  Out there is cold space, but right here is earth".  It was always just a thought concept, but now I could imagine going there and thinking of the enormity of that spot.  It should be no different then the other side, where the water meets rock, but it is.  Some how its so final.

But is there really a other side?  The cold water meets solid rock, again its the same thing.  Its all about the same thing, under the same pressure, just one shifts a bit and the other doesn't.  But without a disturbing presence, most of that boundary is just as still as the other, dead still.  The water lies stagnate, barely moving, while the rock lies more still.  But even the rocks are moving a little bit.  Its all the same stuff thing, under different pressure.  Just like life.

My life is like that chart, and I'm somewhere in the middle.  It could have been easy to be upset at being stuck here for hours, but its a nice place to be.  Its not what I wanted to do today, but there's no sense if fighting it.  Its a perfectly fine place to be, and I'm happy here.  Its good to just go with the flow of things, to really just be okay with what's going on.  Someone once wrote, "How do you know this is a experience that you should be having?  Because your having it."  There's always something to see, if we only open our eyes.  There's always something to hear, if we only listen.  There's always something to say, if only we'd try.  It amazes me how much of my suffering is in my own head, my little story.

My little bullshit story.  Every now and then I catch myself thinking of how wrong, because I was so sure I knew what the I was talking about.  Or how unfair something was, how I was wronged.  My sad little me story.  But then I really think about it, and I see that the facts were simple.  They just were, what ever it is, in anything, facts are neutral.  Then I added my little judgments on it all, "This is that, that is this, and this is what should be."  What am I upset about, the facts or the story?  Just the story.  So why not tell a new one?

I would rather be right then happy sometimes, its scary...  Like I would rather be at home right now, and its wrong that I'm here so I will be pissy.  What if I am here because its a beautiful day for a drive, and that was that?

It could be...

Castle in the sky

Spinning on the mirror, on a calm and silent evening. The full moon stalks along the horizon, watching us. Sneaking from place to place, peering around the darkened houses. Curious and shy, he watches as we glide past. I don't acknowledge him. Best just to ignore his spying. Its his ancient right, after all, and his ancient curse. Watching his home spin madly below him, knowing that one day he will return in fire and glory... but powerless to speed the processes, or slow it. A prisoner to forces long since gone. No there are others I've come to watch this enchanted night.
Butterflies frozen on the frosty glass. Guardians of the boundary above, sentinels of the heavens. Hiding away another world from us. A world of the freedom we deny ourselves. A place of lost hopes and dreams. They live on, uncounted and uncountable. Contented to wait for their return. Like the moon they know they will return. In time all things come full circle. Taking wing on moth's last flight, they come or go. A stately grey moth waits above me, flapping in lazy circles. Knowing this night could be his chance, maybe his last.

No, not yet. I'm not done with my castle in the sky.

Mirror world

There is a mirror world. Its coherence with this world shifts and changes with the wind. Sometimes its out of focus, and nothing more then a dancing ghost of the surface world. On some chill and serene nights however, it becomes almost like a plane of glass. It is never still, it is always changing, it is a thing alive. Its never a perfect reflection of the surface world, and I am grateful that its so.

It is the inherent difference from the surface world that makes it special. Light become brilliant and vague, at the same time. Bands of it dance far and wide from the source. Shadow becomes a void, strips of nothingness. Objects shimmer and distort, only to return then do it again. And it is this very property that makes it magical. Why is the mirror world more beautiful then the surface world it reflects? It is very much the same, and yet just slightly different. Different enough, maybe to remind me to actually look and see. To not simply let my eye pass over things, and see what it expected to see, but to really look. Because it is the first time and the last time and the only time I will see that part of the world just that way. Because the winds will take it, and change it, and it will be gone forever. And the next time I look it will be new again.

And when I fly out onto the mirror world, riding my own reflection like a magic carpet, I am lost to the dance. I become part of it, my passing disturbs the world, and changes it. And I can go to far off places, and look down at the stars shining up at me. All it takes is a change of perspective and I see them again. Really see them. What if we could learn to see the surface world like this? Every day, every moment, really seeing things for the first time?